


Rebel Beat

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [19]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:44:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: “I just don’t want any problems,” James says, wincing again. And just like that, Cris understands.





	Rebel Beat

**Author's Note:**

> Under federal law, the U.S. federal government can enter into agreements with states and counties to deputize certain immigration enforcement functions. Various models have been used--the model implied in this piece is actually one that has been discontinued (for the moment), but at least one other continues. More info available [here](https://www.americanimmigrationcouncil.org/research/287g-program-immigration). This goes hand-in-hand with the ongoing debate, and increasing schism, over sanctuary cities.
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

The city has changed a lot since Cris was a kid growing up here. The frequency of “shots fired” calls they get after dark is testament enough, but as he and Navas drive through the streets just before dusk on a heavy, hot summer evening, Cris sees nothing but empty front yards and drawn window curtains. And even though he’s been on this beat for a couple years now, it still jars him a little, seeing it so lifeless when what he remembers is driveway _carne asadas_ and speakers bumping old-school hip hop and reggaeton and rough-and-tumble football in the streets and bootleg fireworks that were simultaneously hazards to public health and the best entertainment they ever had.

Navas makes a “hmph” noise from the passenger seat. Cris glances at him, eyebrow raised in question. Navas shakes his head, gestures vaguely out the window of the squad car. 

“Someone watching us,” he says, “Pulled the curtain shut real fast when they saw who it was.”

“This is Oak Park, yeah?” Cris says, already knowing the answer, “Lots of immigrant families.”

“Yeah,” Navas replies and there’s a resigned tone in his voice, “Probably worried ICE sent us down here to knock on some doors.”

Cris shakes his head a little, but doesn’t say anything more. They’ve already talked about this, many times over. Part of him wishes the feds would follow through on their threat to pull out of the state altogether; he's pretty sure it'd make his and Navas' job easier. 

The radio crackles to life. It’s dispatch, putting out a call about a fight down by a strip mall in the older part of town. Cris knows exactly which one it is.

“10-4, squad 4 en route,” he responds. 

-

By the time they get there, a couple other squads and an ambulance are already on site and have the situation under control. As he gets out of the car, Cris takes in the scene at a glance, catalogs the small crowd of people watching from inside one of the restaurants, three guys handcuffed and being questioned separately, and off on his own, a fourth person, sitting on a concrete parking block. He’s handcuffed too, but even from fifty feet away, Cris can see the blood on his face. 

“Doesn’t speak English,” another officer says, seeing Cris looking, “Didn’t want medical attention either.” 

Cris nods, catches Navas’ eye and tilts his head toward the guy with the bloodied face. Navas gives him a thumbs up, heads over to where the other officers are.

Cris makes his way to where the guy is sitting. When he gets within about twenty feet, the guy looks up, and he’s a kid, really. There’s a nasty-looking gash above his left eye, blood drying under his nose and around a bad split in his upper lip. He’s bent over too, leaning to his right.

“Hey,” Cris says, crouching down so he can be at eye level, “¿ _Español_?”

The kid shrugs, then nods.

“Want us to patch up that cut?” Cris asks in Spanish, gesturing to his own eyebrow.

“ _No, está bien_ ,” the kid replies after a few seconds. 

Sure, Cris thinks, but he doesn’t push it. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, staying with Spanish. 

The kid looks away. A trickle of blood escapes from his nose, drips down onto his jeans. He sniffs, winces, and Cris makes an executive decision, reaches for his keyring. He’s not the most senior on site, but fuck it. This kid is no condition to be any type of threat to him or anyone else. Something tells Cris he was never a threat to begin with. 

He unlocks the cuffs, slides them off the kid’s wrists. The kid immediately presses one hand against his side. That leads to a grimace and a muttered “fuck,” which Cris could almost smile at because swear words were the first things he learned in English too.

“Paramedics can take a look at that,” he suggests, taking a seat on the concrete barrier. The kid shakes his head.

Short silence. 

“Can you at least tell me your first name, so I know what to call you?” Cris asks eventually. 

Pause.

“James,” the kid replies. 

“James,” Cris repeats, echoing the Spanish pronunciation, “Okay James, can you tell me what happened?”

“A fight,” James says, pulling his shirt up to wipe some of the blood off his face. 

“About?” 

“Nothing,” James says. More blood drips onto his jeans, this time from his lip. He spits on the pavement.

Cris glances over at where the three other guys are still being questioned. Shaved heads. Caucasian. Tattoos that he can’t quite see from here.

“Yeah?” he presses, careful to keep his voice gentle. 

Long pause.

“I just don’t want any problems,” James says, wincing again.

And just like that, Cris understands, and it makes his stomach sink because—

“Cris.” Navas appears in front of him. He’s giving Cris a pointed look, trying to tell him something with his eyes, but before Cris can do anything other than stand up to try and figure it out, the sergeant appears next to Navas. 

“Why’s he uncuffed?” the sergeant asks, jerking a thumb in James’ direction, “Cuff him and take him down to the station.”

“Right now?” Cris says, stalling instinctively, “He needs medical attention.”

“He refused medical attention,” the sergeant replies, “Cuff him and take him to the station. I want to have immigration come and do a check on him.”

So that’s what Navas was trying to tell him. Cris looks at his partner for a split second, then turns to the sergeant. 

“I checked his docs already,” he says, “He’s good to go.”

“You sure?” The sergeant looks down at James, who’s looking down at the ground. “Kroos said this guy didn’t speak any English.”

Cris shrugs. He thinks his heart should be racing, but instead he just feels eerily calm.

“I went through the whole immigration process myself,” he says, “I know what legal docs look like.”

For three, four agonizing seconds, Cris thinks the sergeant is going to challenge him on it, or ask to see the docs himself. 

But then the sergeant shrugs, waves a dismissive hand in James’ general direction. 

“Fine,” he says, “He can go home then.”

-

They take James home. Or at least they take him close to home. He won’t give them his exact address, and Cris doesn’t really want to know it either. They drop him at a street corner in Oak Park, and drive off. Cris carefully does not look in the rearview mirror until they’re around the corner.

For a few minutes, they drive in total silence. Eventually Navas breaks it. 

“You just--”

“I know,” Cris cuts him off. He doesn't need to be told that he just broke federal law.

Pause.

“If you ever get found out--”

“I know,” he repeats sharply.

More silence. Finally Navas speaks up again.

“You know we can't do this every time.”

Cris eases to a stop at a red light, leans his head back against the headrest.

“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out like a sigh, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _carne asadas_ : barbecues, cookouts  
>  _No, está bien_ : No, it's fine.


End file.
